


They say to beholden our fears

by primeling



Category: Transformers, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Body Modification, M/M, Mild BDSM, Mild Painplay, Mild S&M, Mild Subdom, Sticky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeling/pseuds/primeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While not their first time, Optimus and Megatron boldly go forth; undoubtedly they possess a sick and twisted affair, at least it is an affair of their own making. They will always be an exception for each other, perpetuating the conflict they still have not managed to put behind them. After eons of celibacy, Optimus has reminded Megatron that it is always the quiet ones.</p><p>It was finished just last night, and I have not had a chance to do a hard-proof of it. I will do so later, so consider this a messy draft. I do apologize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They say to beholden our fears

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Transformers Fanfiction, though I consider it a lengthy drabble, for I would avoid to call it a PWP anymore. I simply struggle to write anything without even a hint of a plot.
> 
> Recommended Playlist: http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLAiIb1-kkSrnGo0Q19hL9b0xTXJfTeQ0S

A dawn filtered into the horizon of Optimus' consciousness, his systems returning to normal operations at a rate far lower than they typically reengaged; the sluggishness came from what brought him down to recharge in the first place, rather than anything so benign as the environment around him.

The composition of his surroundings was heavy in shadow, and draped by darkness with only the farthest corners and the nearest wall. From them hung banners of war and conquest; the colors of fallen Autobot squadrons stained with energon and soot hung along wrought banisters. The very room he was in caused turmoil; somehow they had ended up in a room of interrogation aboard Megatron’s warship. For a moment, Optimus' tanks rolled at the memory of what had happened long before he came to this place and this point in his long lifespan. For should he, the events surrounding just moments up to his restless recharge could threaten his tanks to purge. More than that, to bring reality to his very real place on the game board was a stinging soreness that came between the juncture of his hip struts; a sticky cool mixture he would rather not think on too much.

In the room he was alone, or so he thought, and let out an indulgent groan -- or perhaps a whimper -- as he bent his knee-joints off the make-shift berth. That was when he realized he was not so alone. From the furthest corner, connected to the dark drape of the nearby wall, loomed two twin embers that watched him; a predator in the night. Though the rest of the features were hidden in shadow, Optimus' cognitively pieced together the full image. Megatron was a predatorial visage in the corner, one that watched his injured prey and battered toy.

The hollow optics never ceased to follow Optimus, who knowingly imagined the smirk across scarred faceplates. The slow and languid cat-like shutter of the red lights were a product of self-pleasure as he watched the Prime wince and lay supplicated, tender parts still revealed from protective paneling. He could see as Megatron began to move out of the shadows, his wide and curved shoulder guards laid low as his prideful gait was adjusted for the nearly crouching-stalk.

Dominate programming took over thought -- a single drop of thought his systems activated -- and in one movement Optimus sat up with right blade slid out in a single whisked movement. Between them it was held sternly; the gesture was only enough to give the Megatron pause before he continued his prowl. The warlord's position in the edge of vision did not last for long, and instead he stalked forward towards Optimus and the gleaming blade. The silver thighs pressed together until the blue inner-panels were nearly hidden away in some form of modesty, and he leaned heavily away from Megatron's crouching figure -- Megatron just kept his creep towards Optimus until he was atop the low dais.

“The storm?” Optimus voiced his question without any opening, rather just to break the silence and to test out his vocal processors. Conversation was easier than discussing what had happened a cycle ago.

There was a crackle of static build up released in the planet’s troposphere, and for several kliks neither moved and neither released a single glyph.

“It has not passed,” murmured his oldest friend.

But, Optimus was not satisfied, and asked, “Then why have we not entered orbit? A storm of this magnit---”

“I enjoy the rage this planet is capable of. Earth is chaotic and turbulent; a trait inherited from the Chaos Bringer. Behold how it struggles to keep the pathetic native life alive, or how simple it would be to destroy it all. This is the planet you seek to protect, not just the pathetic humans. They are a plight on this organic pit stop. It would be far better to destroy the race and free the rest of this ‘Mother Nature’s pawn’ from their scourge.”

Another subject for debate, an argument that could just as easily fell them into another fight; So, Optimus settled with a simple sound rather than a true retort, “Hmm.”

The fact was, in some ways, Optimus agreed with Megatron that Earth was a jewel under siege by the dominate life form, though this was their planet to destroy.

“—‘Out of our evil seek to bring forth good’—We have lost our Paradise; this is not ours, Megatron. If they destroy this world of their own doing, or their arrogance and their greed, then that is their making. The humans are young, even infants compared to us. Few of their kind realize that they are stewards of this world, not solely a benefactor. We cannot force upon them lessons we so-hard learned.”

In the same flicker of lightning’s flash, they were momentarily transported back to the bowels of Kaon’s catacombs. The unlikely sight of Iacon’s promised scribes sitting in safety from a similar storm of acid and wind. His lessons of the educated were shared with the lowest of low, a thug and former miner of the pits; now the hero of the underclasses. They were not lessons that came from a need to prove superiority, but a genuine desire to share the treasures of their kind.

Orion had never looked upon Megatronus as anything but an equal, or something to aspire to and admire of. He shared his knowledge with fervor, as if Megatronus would become something better of a mech the Iaconian already saw as his better – to make that which was the best into the most. His lessons were often filled with hidden meanings as much as obvious clues. Megatronus had flourished by both his humble teacher’s servos and by the raw strength of his prodigal mental capacity.

The words from Prime’s vocals rang to him. It was a poem Optimus gave to him, translated without a computer’s aid; a gift just as Orion once did. The origin was of this world, by a little human long since deceased, a man named John Milton. It spoke of a place called Heaven – the human’s idea of the AllSpark, as well as the counterpart called Hell – their pits, perhaps? But, it was less of the place and more of the epic gods who sought to control Heaven.

A similar battle once waged for control over the Well of AllSparks by he.

What he received from his old friend was incomplete, the passage of the first book perhaps the most emphasized; a message of an angel named Lucifer. This angel was the most promising of all the heavenly host, favored by the God and by the army of angels.

The favored had been rebellious, charismatic, and led a charge of his brethren to overthrow the dominance of God. They were self-begot and self-raised, said the text. For those reasons, Lucifer felt God had no claim over these first children, these Angels.

Lucifer had been the best, and his corruption was the worst; was Prime saying the same of him?

These angels had, in turn, sought to tear down paradise in an effort to claim free-will and choice; perhaps paradise was never meant to exist in the cruelty of the universe, and perhaps, paradise was always meant to be burned to the ground.

And so, Megatron pondered then amended, that a razed paradise with open gates is better than a sealed paradise where some were denied access.

As punishment, they were cast into Hell and turned into harbingers of damnation. For vengeance, Lucifer – then called Satan – swore to tear down heaven and all of creation for God’s actions. It was the fulfillment of a covenant.

One such passage was emphasized by Optimus’ highlights: ‘The Prison of his Tyranny who Reigns’

Though, he had questioned that if he were this Satan character, than who stood in for Optimus? Prime was no god, never made any claim. God had been seen in Megatron’s eyes as the council, who created this natural order in place of the caste system that enslaved them – perhaps even the orderly bounds set forth by Primus. And for Prime he was defined as the last disciple of Primus – ‘The image of their glorious Maker shown: Truth, Wisdom, Sanctitude severe and pure’.

A deeply-unsated growl came from Megatron’s engines, for he was in no mood for one of Prime’s holier-than-thou lessons or discussions. This was one lesson he was still trying to decipher. Not for a lack of understanding, no, he merely wanted to savor it and wait for the rebuttal’s most opportune moment of revelation.

Now, with nothing in reply, not even from his intellectual equal, Optimus pushed forward into the original direction after a moment.

“The groundbridge?”

“Prime, do you doubt my word that you will be safe here as long as the truce stands? Show a little faith. For now, though you are at my… benevolent mercy.”

Benevolent and mercy were not words to be taken so sincerely from a tyrant like Lord Megatron, and even the ever-forgiving Optimus knew better. He let out another short grunt of a reply to that little bit of humor. His thoughts were across the distance to the now opened view panels which showed just how chaotic Earth could be.

Reaching out, Megatron touched his claws along the seam between the blue back of his thigh armor, and the silver gleaming curve -- he pulled or coaxed Optimus to widen the distance between the struts while he gave special interest to the space between the plates. The long slender digits slipped between the space on Optimus' thigh, triggering Optimus' self-consciousness to the point that the complex array of plates on his interface panel began to move.

The sounds drew away Megatron's attention with a sharp jerk of his optics, in the process they were torn away from Optimus' conflict-hardened faceplates and the gaze landed on what lay at the juncture of his two leg struts. There laid the Prime's exposed valve, the gelatinous lubricants hardening to form a disgusting film with a blue-cloud of energon mixed in. And Megatron smirked, that wicked toothy grin that made Optimus wish he could comport himself just enough to lash out and wash it away.

To add to the humiliation, the reality of the situation, his enemy spoke as he eyed the paneling, "Don't," and the single word was clipped and harsh, obviously intended to be a command. Rather than being exactly what infuriated the independent Prime, which would have been as per usual, it made Optimus force back the commands and freeze the metallic components.

"Why?" He asked, in a voice though quiet and understated managed still a challenge. This was who they were.

And it obviously pleased the warlord, who smiled once more away from the change the commandment had made. "The mire will make your discomfort worse. When I broke your seal energon was spilt," he paused, and pulled lip components across his teeth in a hungry, feral display of self-pleasure and looking all the more like a large cat as he tasted the words on his lip components -- Megatron obviously found it delicious to remember who had broken the stoic Prime's seal. He watched on Optimus' face to observe the reaction, as the aggressor put special emphasis on the parties involved and their roles.

"Certain lubricants mixed with energon become harder when dried, and the effects are far worst when combined with the humidity of this planet's atmosphere as it then runs the risk of the two mixtures becoming.. corrosive. If you think it is uncomfortable now, then go ahead and close your panel and let it congeal in your mesh, neural fibres, and tender wires."

A warning or a challenge, Optimus wasn't sure. 

Optimus did not look down from the jagged features of his once-friend, and instead his optics was hardened as he weighed over the information. Was it a trick to humiliate him further -- shame was a constant concern for the once-celibate dataist then Prime, and Megatron knew it. He knew that his friend took pleasure in toying with Optimus and forcing him to deal with emotional consequences that he-himself felt were better left cast aside; Optimus had grown so dependent and comforted by his emotions being kept behind fierce check points.

They were adversaries, they were brothers, and they were enemies with a fight to stand against together. The war was teetering into silence, slowly asphyxiating as the will to continue was snuffed out by a clambering for mutual survival. How they got here was no concern, not at that moment. It was more of poetry that Optimus sat in the company of his once closest friends, shared in confidence they once tore apart as wildly as they had their world. With them it seemed the war would die out, though old wounds and old scars continued to fester while habits played out in broken circuits.

At the end of it, Megatron did have more experience and Optimus knew he had already given some trust without it being returned in mangled form, so he had to bow internally to the wisdom of his elder; this was on field of study the Matrix kept quite mute. Though, not without giving a short glower under his dropped optical ridges; it only amused Megatron further.

"There is no other motive?" He asked, and Optimus still wanted to prove that he wasn't going to lie down and trust his greatest enemy so blithely, not each and every time. He knew that if to gain and keep his trust had to be a challenge, for if Megatron received it more than earning the majority of Optimus' trust, he would cast it aside in favor of a new challenge. Yet, Megatron knew that under it all, Optimus would relent and Optimus would give in to receive some peace for their suffering kind -- even if that meant forgiving the war criminal that asked for no such forgiveness.

These were the games they played.

Precipitation fell against the Nemesis’ massive panels, and the distant sound of thunder tried to barrel into the ship and rock the boat; they stayed firm.

Trust had been built, starting with a single iota of respect and slowly grew as they worked closer and closer for a common goal that meant one thing; the continuation of their people. They were dying, and they both knew it. The stench of death followed the Cybertronian refugees throughout the universe, and there was nothing they could do as the survivors were picked off one by one by way of scavengers or each other.

Still, they had their moments where it looked like by sheer will and personality both were ready to plunge into darkness and chaos once more; to return into an already decimated existence. Together they postured with a devil between them, watching in horror as it danced and mocked at the titans-two. Constantly at war between them, a war over whether betrayal would come into their play once more, or if they would forge ahead into a new tale of their own doing.

Optimus had to stay ready; he had to stay prepared, for he knew from experience that though Megatron was painfully dear to him, the warlord was pain incarnate. The same could easily be said of Optimus by Megatron's perspective, though for entirely different reasons. Through it all they had somehow entered in to this new dance, one the Prime had not expected and remained uncertain how to proceed.

Images replayed in his CPU of the rushed and angry events of earlier in the night. Hurriedly it had started with metal fists and drawn weapons, and somehow it turned into a duel of glossa and wicked bodily entry after inappropriate touches found their way into a fight for dominance. That was how the celibate Prime broke his vows and ended up so exposed and confused.

To remind himself of a single lesson he intended to apply over and over, before his systems rushed energon throughout all the supply tubes, to rush him into battle-ready and to draw back the tension in his fame, Optimus tore away his knitted look at Megatron as the ever-sharp warlord loomed nearby. Optimus' stunted blade on his right arm drew away and the black servos uncurled from the compact fist. He had to stand down from being ready to pick a fight with Megatron, he had to lest they do so in earnest. Shame was a small price to pay if it meant restoring peace between the two; he learned to enjoy this peace even though it was a kindle flicker.

Then, with a heavy exvent he collapsed onto his backstrut hard enough to send shocks of pain through the fixed joints at the base of his smokestacks. Without an answer from Megatron, Optimus showed that he accepted the knowledge and bowed to the experience.

Just the way Megatron liked him; a Prime bowing before him, even if only in personal matters kept guarded in secrecy.

Megatron watched the change come over Optimus, who drew into the heavy thoughts that always wore down on the Prime's broad and powerful frame. He surmised Optimus was likely thinking about their precarious balance, one filled with trepidation and danger on either side, and uneasy longing to return to what was lost; they could never go home, they could never have the friendship exactly as they once had. Though they could reclaim each other in ways they never had before, even the optimistic Prime was never so foolish as to believe things between them would ever be the same. It was a start, a way to worm his way back into Prime's spark chamber and make sure that this time, Prime remained loyal to him and the foolish younger mech retained some malleability under his servos.

His sensors detected a familiarity; humans assumed their kind could not smell because they did not possess noses, when in truth they possessed the same senses as the organic primates and more. What Megatron detected was not just the scent of recent overloads or static buildup, or even the change in the atmosphere from the heavy ionic shift.

No, it smelt even more familiar, more rooted in their makeup as a kind; it smelt of home before the war – it smelt of the expanse between Iacon and the Sea of Rust. For a sentimental moment, Megatron wondered if the smell came from Prime, or did the Matrix keep even the scent of their home?

The sounds of the heavy rain continued, flooding out the thoughts of tomorrow.

“Do you ever miss even the cruelty of Cybertron’s acid rain?” he asked, a snort coming from deep within his vents. 

Optimus kept his optics hidden while letting out another exvent before his answer, “Of home, I miss… everything.”

Now, it was time to drown the memories of yesterday.

The time for maudlin affairs was over, for there was no more room to look back into the nothingness of their damnation.

Those very claws reached up and with one end slowly worked the rim and fold along Prime's open valve; Megatron had to be careful not to cause tears, for the mesh was delicate and his claws were ever so sharp. Eons of having had the modified servos had given him time to learn how to handle the sharp ends, how to treat even the supple metal fibres of interface equipment carefully.

It must have stung, either by the edge of his touch or by the already tenderness of the previously inflicted stimuli, for Optimus let out a flinch and a wince and brought back up his sight to glare at Megatron. Of course, the glare could just come from Optimus' instinctual dislike of being touched.

Megatron let out a low chuckle of amusement as he thought back at how long and hard it had taken a gladiator to earn the trust of a data clerk to just accept the touch of a friend, or the indulgent stroke of finger to the Iaconian crest. It had not taken so long for Optimus to learn to suffer through Megatron's tactile gestures, though it was far more volatile. The first time the warlord mimicked his little stroke of the claw on the helm crest had earned him little in reply, the next few times they had practically engaged in fierce combat simply because the Prime lost his temper for a brief moment -- brevity was long enough to make it all the more amusing. Eventually, Optimus learned to just stay still and let Megatron indulge himself, and just recently he had begun to relax -- perhaps even enjoy the renewal of the secret gesture once more.

"Is that really necessary?" Optimus asked, who then brought his servo to try and interfere with Megatron's idle amusement. Instead, the black servos were swatted away and the larger mech returned to the idle exploration.

"Not all actions must be necessitated. But, in this instance, there is a purpose."

Into the depths of port slipped a clawed digit, still sharp and dangerous around such sensitive metal mesh. Somehow, with experience of such anatomy or confidence of his own servos, Megatron caused little pain and no harm. He stroked at the long line of freshly stimulated nodes, and felt the hidden differences in the array of cluster-nodes. The long gestures kept up tantalizing strokes in long spirals, skipping from one of the ever-reactive calipers to the next, while Optimus' frame still reacted. Long shots of twisted pleasure coiled into this neural fibres and up his back strut -- Optimus convulsed in an arch that he quickly got control over. Lubricants began to be released again, and leaked out only to be spread around the malleable folds at his valve with Megatron's opposable digit while the foreclaw stayed firmly inside..

It did soothe the sensation he awoke to, the discomfort that formed when the byproduct of recent events began to congeal into mire, and for a brief moment Optimus offlined his optics and let his engine express an appreciative rumble.

After a while it became apparent that it was not what Megatron was after, though Optimus did not seek to watch his face, for he would have seen the warlord's twisted features study him so.

With idle concentration Megatron continued his exploration; there was something indulgent about rooting around Optimus Prime's valve with such dangerous claws. It was knowledge that Optimus lay there, with equipment so delicate and sensitive exposed, open to a mech that tried many times just to bring suffering if not termination, though it resulted in neither fighting nor struggle to avoid his touch. The most the blue optics gave to him was a glare that fruitlessly tried to pass the guilt onto a tyrant that felt no such thing.

No, for Megatron felt no such guilt over being that which woke up Optimus' neural net to such base behavior. Long ago, when they had been friends, interfacing had always been a subject that Orion practically ran from -- even in the jovial way most mecha conversed in warm company. No, Orion's faceplates would heat and if pressed they would contort into shameful anger. It took some time and some privacy before the smaller mech finally confided in Megatronus some of the roots at the issues: Orion was ashamed of such things -- though it was never explained why in any detail, as well as having a deep-seeded aversion to his body being so vulnerable to the touch of another. And now, though grown and aged by war, here was Optimus Prime letting him explore so soon after letting him in.

Megatron had no doubt that Prime never took to exploring his own body, at least not since he was a youngling and long before their paths became intertwined. Where Pax had been bashful and easy to fluster, Prime was downright a cold-prude, and that made it all the more amusing to shatter the icy exterior.

A twist of his digit and he finally found it. Megatron pushed in another digit, his action rougher than behavior and just to remind Optimus that he was still a dangerous pleasurer just as his claws. Though, it would not do to do harm to the newly minted valve, so all the long claws did was roughly stroke against the sensitized nodes, mixing pain and pleasure in one foul stroke; Starscream hated such an action, though the screams were delicious to a point.

Optimus Prime was different, or so it appeared. The optics widened for not even a milla-nanoklik, then came nearly closed as a sound he heard cycles earlier came from within the red chassis. Prime's heavy fans turned on to a low setting, heat obviously coursing through energon, and the engine let out what seemed to be an idle hum.

And that was how Megatron got the theory that Cybertron's champion of justice and peace was perhaps a bit of a masochist hidden within.

Excellent or so thought Megatron, who considered that perhaps he had found a possible counterpoint to his sadist nature?

Around them the planet’s atmosphere, already turbulent and willful, began to boil over from the dense humidity spoke of. The rain pelted across the Nemesis’ bow without mercy, the hurricane tried to draw the alien warship into her fury.

To experiment, Megatron hooked one claw's tip against a larger hidden node towards the front and jabbed sharply -- just enough to scratch at the mesh and cause no lasting harm, then to relax and stroke with the underside of the curve. The reaction was instantaneous: Optimus' engines roared for a nanoklik and sank down to an idle rev, while the fans clicked to an even higher setting; still no sound came from Optimus' vocals, which remained firmly silent to Megatron's displeasure.

However, this was not quite why Megatron had started his task. With the information filed away, the warlord deftly searched again for his goal, and amongst the lubricant and neural transmission fluid, he found it. The digits worked in tandem and clamped down on the loose material. With one jerk of his elbow and shoulder joints it was pulled out.

What it was was a sliver of torn mesh between the deft claw tips. He held it up and waited for Optimus to finally take in the sight.

“What---” Prime's words failed it, just as his chastity and that amused Megatron; this day had brought a lot to be pleased and amused by.

“Part of your seal,” Megatron said with a bored tone. The material looked like woven metal, a flexible cloth forged of alloy. It was made of highly malleable metal that each of their kind knew all too well. Mesh was the soft part of their frame, the skin that covered the delicate protoform hidden under all Cybertronian's armor. They were a species with an exo and indo-skeleton in one, one of the reasons why in battle for survival their kind was so durable.

But, metal did not give way and a loose seal trapped behind a closed panel could eventually fuse to the mesh within or worse, a node. Occupied, Megatron regarded the bit of metal as if pondering it briefly on the irony it symbolized. For eons this little bit of mesh had sealed Optimus away from being so engaged with any of his fellow Cybertronians in the same way the Matrix kept trying to do so now, and after all this time it was a simple piece of metal fibre to be cast aside. Megatron had torn down the caste system with a brutality that tore the fabric apart, and now he had torn at one of the last living relics that kind had to offer -- the Prime. It was not how he envisioned making his mark on the legacy of Optimus Prime, however, it would do for this conquest was personal and felt even in the spark chamber of his old enemy.

"This could make... things very uncomfortable," he added for an explanation.

"Thoughtful," Optimus retorted, though sarcasm was there as much as sincerity -- sincerity that Megatron had lacked just then.

Megatron acted in his own interests, for he figured that someone as inexperienced as Optimus would disallow any further actions if pain was not for pleasure and the discomfort constant; though Optimus was not one to whinge, Megatron had no intention of running any risk.

What really amused the warlord was what followed, for he had not put down the retrieved bit of mesh, and was questioned with "Do you intend to keep that as a trophy?"

Optimus' words were said with a tone closest Megatron had ever heard of a sneer to come from the noble Prime. He knew Optimus enough to know that this came from a deep shame buried within his brother, who was probably so discomforted to see the evidence of his breakage as much as he was uncomfortable at Megatron observing it.

What Optimus got as an initial answer was a sneer pulling at scarred lip components. Then, with a jerk, the torn piece -- covered in both fluids and fuel -- was caste aside into the shadows that bathed around them.

"No, I intend to keep you as my trophy." 

That was when he pounced.

Together they rumbled at each other, with engines loud, and their actions took a tumble for a brief moment. Before Optimus could truly react, he felt a sharp sensation return to his newly splayed opening; that as their difference, Megatron was curves, sharp and deadly, while Optimus had smoothed lines and gentle edges and each respective mech comported themselves accordingly.

Re-entered without warning or instigation, just a simple pin of one of Optimus' thighs, Megatron gave a sharp jerk of his hips, and the Prime was filled. At that moment, Optimus gave a jerk of his forearms against Megatron's thoracic armor and a glower through his optics, but the fight was not in him for he found no reason to fight -- not right then. Instead, he let his helm turn away.

After the buildup and effort put into the first joining, Optimus supposed that from there things would only be forced into simplicity.

A low grumble came again from his old friend's heavy engines, his faceplates looming low with bared denta nipping at Optimus' jaw.

Tenderness came from the soreness of Optimus' mesh and not from the warlord's actions, which moved without deliberation, and though each thrust of his hips was heavy, they also had laziness to them. In his silence Optimus relented, perhaps laying too limply to appease the fickle entertainment of an equally fickle warlord.

As for the warlord, his vocals growled as he vented against the geometric nest at Optimus' neck and collar. Optimus was no longer like many of them, no longer like how he appeared on Cybertron. His Earth form had changed even the armor of his bipedal form, leaving so much of him looking somehow even more machine-like, even more raw and primitive.

The black-soot paint was all over pistons and struts, painting even the metal mesh covering deceptively delicate-looking cables. However, there was nothing truly delicate about the Matrix's forged weapon. Though exposed his parts may be, he was hard and steeled everywhere; few tender bits were exposed, and that which was exposed was ripe for Megatron's jagged denta to gnaw on. One such energon cable tasted bitter and metallic under the warlord's efforts, who took his time to tear the tiniest of pricks into the vein, his glossa immediately working to take in what leaked out.

With each variety of thrust and angle, Optimus grit his denta tight and rolled his lip components off those perfect-flash of chrome denta; he kept guard on his silence, but Megatron wanted more. Megatron always wanted more, for he was a conqueror never satisfied; that was why Optimus made sure to always deny something. 

Right then, Megatron did not want to be denied after having had heard the first indicators of what Optimus Prime would sound like under such wanton throes during their first round of interface -- sweet pain and wicked pleasure all in one.

"I grow tired of your silence, Optimus. Your writhing is not enough for me; I must have all of you dedicated," Megatron said with a growl between his lips, the denta bared open and still closed.

What disciples would write of their testament?

They were shifted, Megatron's left claw grasping at Prime's waist and thrown off the berth, where by the larger mech quickly slipped under the gap with his massive cannon affixed to his forearm. Megatron's other servo clasped at Prime's hip to pin him down the best he could, and with a threat of his vents’ hiss he bore down and whispered a warning or a threat: "Hold very still, or you will be torn from the inside out."

Megatron had received modification throughout his life; most were made for the purpose of war and intimidation, many of which originated from the gladiatorial ring. One such modification was for a most basic of defensive purposes, to keep others from taking advantage of the gladiator for whatever purposes or to inflict untold pain for his own purposes.. His spike, now buried only to the tip within Optimus, was covered in plating with the ability to consciously flare out, the all the more dangerous pulled out against the grain, when it would tear into the delicate mesh, rip out nodes, and cause irrevocable harm to the array of calipers.

However, with some time and practice, Megatron had learned a few tricks to apply with it. Rarely had he found anyone who enjoyed the skill without false platitudes. Rather than opening the splay when he pulled out, Megatron moved slow and steady inward push. He did so as slow as he could, conscious of slowly opening the splay to expand outward and scrape the smooth edge of the flared plating with the movement. The edges ran across the nodes and expanded the already tight mesh outwards; Optimus was nearly his height and frame size, but the old build he once had was still evident. 

So the sensitized nodes were now treated to a hidden ability few had, and Optimus would have never considered being subjected to such talents.

Megatron had idly wondered how much of a tight squeeze Orion might have been, most likely unbelievably so and would require far more care to prepare than Megatron had the patience for, but Optimus was just large and sturdy enough to take a good pounding. He was still small, tight, a narrow juncture filled with the tight mesh that had never been stretched before. Even their previous interfacing and subsequent overloads had only loosened him partially so, the constriction was already returning.

The musing was interrupted for that was when it happened; Optimus Prime let out a great sound. His voice was the sort that reached across the stars and stirred the minds of many, flared at his enemies' wrath, won over the sparks and minds of masses, and infuriated his enemies though they may sometimes teeter on foolish abandonment.

Abandonment was exactly the sound that Prime let out; it was beautiful in the wrongness, to hear such a moan deep and heavy; it vibrated through Optimus' entire chassis, even into the tender mesh surrounding Megatron. None had ever heard a sound like that come out of their regretfully controlled leader, and Megatron then swore that no one ever would; it was his sound, it was his Prime.

Behold heavens: the cry of prophets!

‘A cry of Hell Hounds never ceasing barked’ – Thunder could not even drown out the ferocity of Prime’s cry. May all the heavens hear the corruption of the most pure of ilk; A great conquest to claim.

Megatron chuckled low and deep, and paused to reach his glossa out while retracting the flare and moving out of Optimus' port. Megatron lapped up energon stuck to his lips and the sharp jaws of his denta, as he also began to slowly repeat his movements, each time using his special modification to wind up the willing Prime under him. Never before had Megatron ever considered how much of a masochist Optimus might be, though the earlier experiment had made a strong case. Now the hypothesis was proven fact, and though they were light and dark, together they formed a cohesive balance of grey.

It was known full well that Prime’s endeavors were an attempt to save him as much as their people. In exchange, Megatron reached out of the bowls and dragged Optimus down into the depths with him; a trap sprung for well-intended prey. This time, however, Megatron had no intention of releasing Prime, not again.

\---‘For this he shall live hated, be blasphemed, Seized on by force, judged, and to death condemned; A shameful and accursed, nailed to the Cross’--- Would Prime bare the cross to save his enemy and his brother?

Ever the shadow, Megatron was drawn for indulgent purposes to Optimus' light; he may be burned in the process of touching, it was worth it to touch and corrupt something once seen as pure. And if Megatron was the shadow and the Prime was the light, then Optimus' humility and desire to be unseen willed him to shrink away into the shadow Megatron would cast, just for a private reprieve from being watched.

Unfortunately for Optimus, it was during these moments where Megatron fully intended to watch and watch carefully. A shift came again, as Megatron threw Optimus’ left hip strut off the berth once more, and down he threw his frame under Prime’s side. He had pulled out to achieve the movement, but just as quickly as their position changed he pushed back in and earned another grunt from the surprising partner.

The servos attached to his right arm clawed in the space between strut and joint, then downwards over the lustrous anterior of Optimus’ right strut. Megatron grasped at the thigh and pulled it out and upwards, mirroring the movement with the left strut, until the right could go any higher with his arm so pinned. The left could, and Megatron took full advantage of Optimus’ youthful flexibility by almost folding one half of Prime’s body to better open the valve. 

And Prime continued to make noises, noises that became higher and heavier, a symphonic cacophony of primal desires to Megatron’s desires. Optimus obviously only had half a spark to care anymore about the brutal abandon coming from his vocals.

The position was twisted, and the position was wonderful to behold. From where he was, Megatron could still look down the expanse of Optimus’ body. Where they were joined was entertaining, though much as the splay of abdominal plates pulled apart to expose the flex of wires, and then hidden away with the constriction of the frame with the push and pull of the pestle movements. The rhythm slowed once more with ebb, for only to have the depth increased and the brevity shortened. 

There was no reason to fall stale or tired in this game.

With denta at his finials, Optimus somehow managed to contort his body further into the abusive nips on sensitive equipment; Megatron thought of when he first discovered their sensitivity, and the amusement they gave thereafter. So close to Prime’s helm, he could run his glossa across the upward length of the largest fin.

It made Optimus squirm.

With one particularly hard jab towards Optimus’ core, there was another hiss as the smaller mech’s spike finally engaged suddenly and swiftly. Prime had shown signs of being less comfortable with that singular piece of equipment than his port.

Static was already built up in either mech, and released charges jumped visibly off one to the other. The bioluminescent neural nodes blinked blue with surges along Prime’s spike, sometimes flaring to the point that a band of electric light coiled off.

Any other mech would have grasped himself, would have taken the pleasure into their own servos. Not Prime; instead, the Autobot leader let out a growl in his static-infused vocals and with a lightning faster twist dislodged himself from Megatron and flipped around, slamming his curled fist just off to the side of the warlord’s helm.

“Megatron.”

The mask had been activated just as quickly, and in the same moment Megatron’s battle systems took over his HUD, ready to meet the Prime’s aggression. His cold servo clasped around Prime’s neck, into the exposed mechanisms, and the fusion cannon audibly came to life, one such opposable digit hooked under Prime’s knobby lug-nut at his jaw, pressing deep into a large energon-vein to cut off a much needed supply. Though both open and bare they stood on the precipice of war, each waiting for the other to make the first strike.

Internally, Megatron’s logic systems knew that there was little threat from Optimus, who rarely ever pushed the first strike. Still, he was a gladiator honed in the Pits of Kaon, and he would not take for granted any possible threat… no matter how docile they could be otherwise.

It was all posturing.

The other claw dug deep into Optimus’ hip joint, digging at the sensitive wires and plucking at the spring’s casing. It was a precarious position, both posturing to redirect their energies back to the familiar play for conflict.

Prime pulled back, his optics shifting around Starscream’s torture chamber to take in the eerie sights; he wondered if these had been the chains Fowler and Wheeljack once hung onto life so desperately? Optimus didn’t want to wonder, he didn’t want to dwell – though the question hung still.

Megatron watched Optimus’ defiance now evident on his features even with the mask activated; the optics spoke volumes. He had seen this look on Prime’s face plenty of times, and the mask could do little to cover the ferocity in the cerulean lights.

Perhaps it had been just a momentary display of dominance, a reminder that Prime was the gentler of the two by choice and personality, though not by weakness. The cannon’s heat continued to diffuse the air with a crackle of power, power that Prime himself seemed reflect with embodiment and form.

It only made the crackle of electricity charge off them both all the more potent and reaching between the two; both fed off the struggle for power, the struggle for dominance, each enjoying giving or taking for entirely different reasons – another grey area they inhibited between light and shadow.

What held Optimus’ interest became evident, and to Megatron’s shock he watched as Optimus reached up with his open servos to grasp at the heavy chains. Together they moved, those servos of the Prime, to take and to give perch as with one jerk of each individual shaft, Optimus wrapped the links around his large forearms.

As he did so, Megatron saw lubricant and other fluids drip off Prime and land on his armor below; a wanton display he learned to appreciate.

The defiance returned to gaze down at the conquering warlord below him.

Megatron watched with interest, though threat still distorted his features as much as bewilderment and slowly the details changed to demoralizing approval.

Prime trussed himself up with the tangles of the chains; obviously, Optimus Prime had wicked ideas for someone so adverse to prurient behavior -- it was always the quiet ones. Bound by chains and gagged by a vow, to be it was what kept Optimus’ courage in that moment lasting.

For all his long lifespan, Optimus was always a prisoner to something as much as he was a champion of freedom. His caste had kept him and his ilk under guard of thought and action; they were told what the right was and what the wrong sort of company was. Vicars and prefects alike managed to influence younglings to the point that naturally behavior was seen as deviancies from their path, and it held back Optimus to this very day.

Megatron almost wanted to invite Prime to crucify himself in that moment.

Claws grasped into hips again, narrow despite the size of the entire torso frame; perfect in the palm of cold cruel servos. With his guidance, Optimus sat down on Megatron, rejoining their bodies once more. It was followed by a sound that came from Prime, a repeat of his deep growl, in harmony with the hum of his engines and vocals – together it was a song so close to a battle cry.

The walls to his prison’s antechamber were slowly being pulled apart, and the chains that suspended him now gave the controlled mech a reprieve from the chains of his mind. When it came to matters of the mesh, to play for a lack of control meant to regain his, to be bound by physical links was to severe the tie of shame coiled around him.

The elongated legs remained bent under Optimus’ body, the weight placed primarily on knee-joints at the lowest posture. From that position, Optimus used his strength to pull up, and slowly control the descent back down until he was fully seated on Megatron’s spike.

Above Megatron was another display he had to take moment to appreciate. In that moment the powerful beauty and raw sensuality of the Cybertron's last Prime was put on display, a display for only him to see, for again, Megaton swear that this was his possession and his Prime – this was his trophy.

Optimus continued the slow movement of rise and fall; another metaphor for their contrast struggle – how those ideas crept into everything they did.

There was something others would not understand: Orion was the exception, always the exception. The small clerk came from the upper class city of Iacon, with no armor or knowledge of combat, and a meek countenance to compliment the humble stature. And yet, there was a fire to him that drew the gladiator in until the little clerk was the very exception that broke so many rules. Megatron had always considered that when Orion was turned from him, all those exceptions were broken and shattered into the debris of war.

Megatron was always drawn to power; he hated weakness, incapable of tolerating in his allies or his foes. That was why Orion had been the exception. Orion summoned a will to protect, whereas Optimus had a will to use in combat and to lead; it was an intoxicating power that instilled lust. Instead the broad frame of Prime's upper body was pulled up by the leverage of the chains, solely with the strength of his crimson chassis and arm-shafts.

Claws continued to leave marks on the effulgent plating at the abdomen; wires were picked at by the tips, slipping through the seams during a descent and trails left behind. Optimus was more silent this time, perhaps from the concentration to control his frame as he displayed himself so openly.

In his place came Optimus Prime, a weapon built up by the construct of the Matrix of Leadership. He was built to be the perfect counterpoint to Megatron. Tiny librarian became massive warrior, nearly all data ports were taken over by weapons and double-or-triple armor; even that tantalizing mind was shifted further towards war and leadership. The stubbornness had already been there, though now it was no longer used to the application of arguing with a Grid rusing to surrender secrets; no, now it was to hold the line against the Decepticon forces – against Megatron. The power of will was finally outfitted with the power of the Primes.

It was with power that Optimus moved, inside and out. With each rise and fall of his considerable frame, Megatron could feel the deep calipers that made up the shape of the valve move, clenched tight and hard – the abdominal plates constricted in response to the control. As he pulled upward, it felt as if Optimus had been trying to stay seated in his position with the internal strength of his equipment, while the arm shafts stole him upwards. It was a duality of interfacing power.

Megatron had always known he would somehow possess the power of the Primes, and as it turned out this method was quite appealing. Though, by sheer refusal to remain under any control, Megatron grew weary of their position and heaved upright with leg struts now under his weight, and Optimus’ own thrown around his waist.

“Release,” he said of short command. His optics indicated with a visual gesture at the chains; for though he enjoyed the display, he did not seek to continue for much longer.

Prime obeyed, with not even more than a narrow of his optical ridges, and for a moment it seemed simple enough. Megatron bit at Prime’s mask, a sight symbol of how Orion Pax had slowly begun to morph from a pure intellectual to a graduate of war; the metal tasted good. Even the air remained charged by their systems and the atmosphere, for as the second blue-black servo moved away a strong current of released energy slipped from the tip of his longest digit into the long line of links that led onto the Nemesis’ vaulted ceiling.

"So tell me, Prime: are you lowering yourself to the base behavior of the lower castes, or overreaching towards the luxuries of you betters? Or are you just indulgent in a sick and twisted affair?" he snarled to try and get a rile out of Optimus again; he loved that violent passion under it.

Instead, Optimus went still and lowered his helm to look down at Megatron. Even his servos fell from their grip, the digits held lose and the joints brought up to almost touch at Megatron's features; for a moment, it was tender and it was softness, like the secret way Megatronus sometimes caught the small clerk peering his direction. However, this was not Orion, this was Optimus and he showed no such gentleness to his greatest of enemies. Though, as the mask opened to reveal the chrome faceplates, he could still see the youthful expression of the little clerk.

Yet, there it was, holding onto Megatron's spark to still the pulse. He froze and narrowed his optics, a predator waiting for the next flinch and defensive attack by his prey. However, what happened was something different. Instead, Optimus' fore-digit brushed against the jagged scar along Megatron's cheekplates; a brush gestured by Orion on rare occasions, a gesture Megatronus had never deciphered and Orion refused to explain or even speak of. All the warlord could tell was it did something wretched to his spark.

"Understand this, Megatron: I am neither, for I am a freed Cybertronian choosing what I want to do. If that leaves me indulgent, then so be it."

The digit fell away and curled flat around the interior sweep of Megatron's shoulder guard, and from there they both kept the stillness.

It was always stillness, for no other word could be used to describe the quiet tension of words kept silent or words unknown.

Megatron did not watch Optimus' observance of him, though he knew the bright blue was watching him with a keen interest. Still they kept on keeping, quiet long enough for exterior metal to cool and begin with contractions, the audible clinks the only sound in their silence.

This frozen posture came by the former gladiator from the task of thinking on such implication now swarming in his processors, skipping circuits, and releasing stray charges into his CPU's wires.

It was a powerful statement from his enemy, from his friend, from his brother and his rival. The powerful current under their mutual hurt, all the shared posturing, and under the unresolved anger that crackled between the two titans. He understood what Optimus was saying, though Megatron did not know what to do with the concrete knowledge that Optimus Prime was here and engaging with him because he wanted to, and he was freed by way of their terrible war.

When Megatron gave no immediate answer, while his scarred features remained twisted in concentration, Optimus let a short and solid “Hmf,” as if he found the answer within the muted vocals.

And this was the end of their play for Optimus’ falsetto dominance was only allowed to continue briefly.

For with a deep growl, two elbow joints slipped under Optimus’ individual knee struts, and a snarl was released as Prime found his heavy frame tossed off his seated position into an arch over the air. Megatron must not have liked the implication that he was satisfied with even a curt refusal.

The red mech landed with a thunder echoed by Earth’s fury. Fallen had they on Optimus’ back, with a threat to crush the ventilation units and well as an earned groan of pain and discomfort. Somehow in this shift they managed to stay together.

It was just the two of them against the world in this room.

Again, Megatron was back over his form, a silvery mass of war and struggle that lay dominate over him. His joints were still bent over the strong shafts, and barred death snarled back in Optimus’ faceplates.

A short grunt and a jab, and once again Optimus had been filled without platitude; it hurt momentarily from the intensity of the reunion, though he doubted that it was carelessness, rather more a reminder that sentimentality was not welcomed.

That was fine with Optimus, for though he knew he was the more sentimental of the two, he also wanted to be freed from such.

“Uhhf—“ It was an undignified sound from an otherwise mostly dignified mech, and that only appeared to please Megatron even more.

Even Optimus was ready to end this round together; the building charge in his systems created discharges that sought conduction and escape at any point that was left to be found.

Several wicked arches crawled off Megatron’s broad thoracic armor and lapped at Optimus’ red panes.

The long silver and blue struts had since been tossed over the wide and long height, placed painfully in the upward-downward sweep of battlement shoulder guards; Megatron was built like a fortress.

In his faceplates was the gargoyle-like features of his oldest friend, his oldest enemy; the jagged edge of denta barred open to Optimus and he was reminded of predators in Earth’s wild. It was a growl once more, one that snarled over the roar of heavy flight engines, and drowned out the steady hum of Optimus’ overclocked systems.

Both audio systems were filled with their fans on high, the clinks of overheating metal registering to overstimulated audios. And Optimus sank off his upper back strut, his servos pinned behind his back where Megatron had tossed them in the scurry.

For such titans of metal, they had their status of demigods to keep both so mobile and capable of licentious contortions. It was a good change from how the two moved in battle against the other.

Optimus’ red and black spike was almost pinned, though this time between their bodies. The stray discharges of static and current licked at it, igniting a flare of light from the neural nodes placed between each red panel.

Biolights were more than just decorative on their kind, serving a function as well as the product of their natural biology. Raised bundles and lines of neural transmitters, some were of such condensed masses that they formed nodes for manipulation. The blue light flickered off Megatron’s silver abdominal plate, and played with the lavender hue of the domineering force.

The sounds of angry metal continued to creak as with Megatron’s forceful will they kept the primal movement up. For a moment, though, Megatron went still and bent down his helm and gnawed on the tender cabling on Prime’s neck; he worked with glossa and denta to reopen the tiny punctures made earlier, this time deepening and widening them to spill more energon into his waiting gap.

He sank in deep within Optimus’ core, grinding around the outer nodes that surround the opening. He concentrated and channeled charges through the glyph-marked nodes between plates on his spike; the charge shot into Optimus and cruelly inflected pleasure.

“Mine,” he snarled, not even bothered by the trickle of blue fuel falling down his chin in abandon.

To prove his point, he listened to outcry of Prime’s vocal, when normally Optimus would have made some effort to refute the claim; all the smaller mech could do was bellow out his pleasure.

Again, processors replayed words in Megatron’s mind – ‘Heavens purest Light, yet our great Enemy; All incorruptible would on his Throne.’

Clean and simple lines became sullied in the wake of Optimus’ overload, which released sticky strings of transfluid glossed over on the silver expanse between the two, even catching on the edges of Megatron’s own.

With a great heavy heave of his hips, Megatron spilled contents within Optimus between their struts, and up above he continued to drink on the vaporous supply of trickled energon.

All systems fell into power down.

Whichever of the two warriors came online, neither knew. That was not their concern. Before optics came, their audios were filled with the loud creaks and groans of rapidly cooling metal, and the sound of rain still pouring onto the warship.

The fans were still cycling down from their overworked settings, and each CPU showed reluctance of returning to operations.

Pale red glinted first in the darkness, and stared down until finally the tessellated details of cerulean showed themselves once more. In that moment, as Mother Nature raged on in conflict, they stared at each other with uncertainty and with calmness.

Who would move first? What would enact the first move?

It was the warlord who moved first, bringing up a clawed tip to touch down the play of Optimus’ helm crest; he could hear the xylophonic sound in his audios – the bells of Iacon rang in his memories.

If it was the corrupt that moved first, then it would be the noblest that spoke first, “I belong to no one, and I am no trophy to possess.”

Megatron released a barked laughter. “You insist on challenging my claim. Yet, here you are, Prime… and you are mine; for all may look upon you, but none, save me, to touch.”

“We shall see.”

A challenge -- And wish and struggle.

“Perhaps we will return to Cybertron and with all her people. However, only I shall behold you. That is a price to be paid.”

“… I see.”

Silence between the two titans, for it was now an argument postponed.

“Perhaps what we should see is the wash-racks.”

“Hmmm.”


End file.
